


Mourning Doves

by byhisownstandardshefailed



Category: 18th Century CE RPF, American Revolution RPF
Genre: Aftermath of the duel with Charles Lee, Awkward conversation between John's dad and boyfriend while he's asleep, Henry is kind of a dick but I think he only wanted the best for John, Historical Lams, M/M, Written from Henry's POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-27
Updated: 2019-01-01
Packaged: 2019-09-28 09:33:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17180441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/byhisownstandardshefailed/pseuds/byhisownstandardshefailed
Summary: A short story about Henry Laurens and his view of John's experience in the war and his own losses. There's also a bit about John's affinity for birds which is there for a certain someone.





	1. The Voice of Reason

December 23rd, 1778

Henry Laurens had spent the day in a state of constant worry. His son had casually informed him over breakfast that he would be fighting a duel that afternoon and now at nearly ten in the evening Henry still lacked any news on the outcome. He had consoled himself that the lack of news probably meant that his son was not dead nor gravely wounded. Instead he was left to suffer through an evening of socialization and wine all the while wondering what befell his idiot son. If Henry had been consulted before John issued the challenge he would have advised against it. It was in poor taste to take to the field to defend another man’s honor, and the slight would be escalated in the case of Commander in chief of the Continental army. Unfortunately John had been rather disinclined to heed his father’s wisdom as of late and had begun to develop a reputation as a reckless fellow with no concern but battlefield glory.   
As Henry’s carriage stops outside his Philadelphia address, he notices that most of the windows had gone dark. The household servants had mostly retired and John and his companion were either still out on the town or already asleep. One of the servants rushed out to help Henry down from the carriage and up the steps to the house. Inside was silent except for the crackle of the hearth which had burned low as glowing embers.   
Upstairs there was no light under of his son’s door. John had insisted on sharing his bed with fellow aide de camp Alexander Hamilton claiming that poor Alex would be put up in a cot somewhere if he did not accommodate him. Henry had thought that perhaps the cold had made John particularly eager to share, as the winter nights were painfully cold and doubling up would offer some respite. Back in Geneva he had often shared a bed with his friend Francis in the winter. Apparently the landlord of their boarding house was stingy with firewood.   
After some hesitation, Henry opened the door to his son’s room and peered in. He had only wished to see them asleep and unharmed to console his worry for their safety. His own son was fast asleep, but his companion had his writing desk in his lap and the stub of a candle illuminating a single sheet of paper. The young man looked startled, but he straightens and composes himself admirably.   
“Can I help you sir?” he asks.   
“I thought you would both be asleep. I only wanted to see you both made it home unharmed, news of the duel had yet to reach me.” Henry says quietly.   
“Come in I’m writing my report on the incident, you won’t wake John. I’ve found he’s not easily woken.” Hamilton says fondly.   
Henry cannot help but be amused by that statement, “Yes, I know. We had a new baby in the house most years and all the young children were quite loud. I think that might have caused this.”   
Hamilton chuckles at this then adds, “As you can see he’s unharmed. I can’t say the same for Lee but he’ll live.”  
“They fired on one another?” Henry asks as he brushes a lock of hair away from John’s face.   
“John insisted on that. I did my best to talk him out of it, but he’s incredibly stubborn.” Hamilton assures him.  
Henry finds a scratch across his son’s cheek, his chest tightens imagining a bullet grazing him so closely. “Was this caused by a shot?” Henry asks. The wound looks too ragged and thin to have been caused by a pistol shot.   
Hamilton chuckles, “No, he did that to himself. He was turned round in the saddle telling me about some bird he had seen and a branch knocked his hat off. It was quite comical. I suppose it scratched him a bit but it didn’t worry me too much. I suppose I was more worried about Lee’s shot.”  
“A bird?” Henry asks.  
“I’ve never liked them much but John comments on every single one we see. He seems to know the name of every species and seems hellbent on telling me. Once we travelled together and I spent two days hearing the name of every damn bird we saw. I was tempted to shoot him out in the woods if he told me about one more woodpecker. Nobody would have known.” Hamilton tells him.  
“Yes he has quite an affinity for the natural sciences. Did he tell you he and his mother raised a trio of doves in my house?” Henry asks. Hamilton shakes his head.  
“Jack and his mother found them on the ground after a spring storm. Their nest was smashed to pieces and Jack insisted we bring them home. He and his mother put them in a crate by the hearth and spent weeks feeding them crumbs and oats and such. They made so much noise and shat everywhere, but I could never deny my wife anything. She refused to put them in a cage, so they would spend hours in the garden with them, chasing the cats away while they learned to fly. They kept feeding them for years, and their descendents have kept building nests at Mepkin. I suppose they make for a nice reminder of her.” Henry says rather wistfully. “That memory makes me long for simpler times when Eleanor was by my side and our greatest worry was Jack wandering down to the river unattended and getting eaten by an alligator. Now my children were scattered over the world and my eldest seems incredibly keen on throwing himself in front of british volleys. At least with the alligators Eleanor and I could keep him contained in the house or garden and if need be chase him down and cut him off from the river. Now I am fated to wish him well and then wait for weeks if not months on end for a letter to inform me my son is still alive, and probably wants a new coat which I will be expected to supply him.”   
Hamilton smiles a bit at the story. “He doesn’t tell me much about his childhood. Usually our conversation is confined to the goings on of the war.”  
“And yet he makes time for the birds?” Henry asks.  
“I suppose so.” Hamilton chuckles.   
“We all have the little things that get us through life’s trials. Mine has been wine, I suppose tormenting you with the names of birds is a healthier coping mechanism.” Henry says looking down at his sleeping child.  
“I assure you we have had plenty of wine sir. Our dear friend the Baron sees to that.” Hamilton assures him.   
John stirs and shifts in his sleep suddenly, gripped by the tremors of a dream. His father wonders if it’s dreams of the men who have tried to kill his son or the ones his son had cut down. Hamilton reaches over without looking and puts his hand on John’s shoulder.  
“You’re alright, we’re safe Jack.” he says softly.  
Henry watches his son fall into a more peaceful slumber.  
“The two of you are quite close aren’t you?” Henry asks.  
“War forges strong bonds of friendship.”Hamilton agrees, “Though I regret we met under such dire circumstances.”  
“Would you do me the favor of looking out for him? The stories that make it back to me of his recklessness scare me to death. I should take great comfort in knowing a voice of reason stands at his side. I know he is a rash fellow, but I bid you urge him to employ more caution in his endeavors.” Henry says.  
“I fear that would fall on deaf ears.” Hamilton protests.  
“I had always thought him too soft and insubordinate to become a soldier.” Henry says a bit sadly.  
“Soft?” Hamilton asks.  
“Well he’s always been brave, but not to the point of foolishness. I suppose I mistook weakness for compassion in some cases. There were times I worried he was a molly, but he proved me wrong on that front.” Henry tells him.  
“Oh?” Hamilton says with some confusion.  
“One cannot help but worry when their sixteen year old paints flowers while his friends are out bothering girls.” Henry says, “You cannot blame me for having suspicions.”  
“Jack appears to fixate himself to a single cause and has eyes for little else.” Hamilton explains.  
“Yes, that is true. I only wish he thought more of his own happiness.” He pauses, “I believe it is well past time for me to retire. Goodnight Mr. Hamilton.”  
Hamilton sets aside his desk and quill as Henry makes for the door.  
“Goodnight sir.” Hamilton says as the door closes behind him. He cannot help but smirk in amusement at what has passed. Once the footsteps fade down the hallway Hamilton settles down beside John and presses a kiss to his temple.   
“Jack, you would not believe the conversation I just had with your father,” he whispers. To his horror John’s eyes flutter open and he looks at Hamilton in confusion, the movement having woken him. He sighs contentedly and nestles himself closer to Hamilton.   
“You are extremely relaxed for a man who rode out into the woods and shot a general only hours ago.” Hamilton says softly.  
John’s lips curl into a smug grin. “You know it was deserved and he is not mortally wounded. Allow me to enjoy being smug about it. Did you wake me just to chastise me for sleeping soundly?”  
“No my dear of course not, I didn't mean to wake you. I’m surprised you did not wake earlier when your father was in here.” Hamilton informs him. John sits up abruptly and looks about the room, trying to distance himself from Hamilton in case his father lurked in the shadows.   
“Shhh you’re alright. He’s gone, no need to bolt off like a startled horse Jack.” Hamilton says reassuringly. John slowly settles back into Hamilton’s arms and looks up at him with confusion.   
“Why did he come in here?” John asks.  
“He wanted to see you were safe.” Hamilton assures him.  
“Oh,” John says with some relief.  
“Don’t worry darling I didn’t tell him how you really got that scratch.” Hamilton teases.


	2. Requiem

January 1785  
The letter sat heavy in Henry’s hand. The words hung like ghosts in the air. He had received many such letters laced with remorse and consolation, but this one had something different. It was sent to him by the Stock family, the owners of the plantation his son had been laid to rest on after his final action at Combahee. They told him of how his son had been buried with full military honors, and how he was welcome so send men to remove the remains and transport them to his own estate. The thought sickened Henry. Of course the Stock family did not offend him with their kind words. He was grateful that they had done him this service, but he could not bear the thought of seeing what remained of his son.  
Henry gazed out at the rolling bluffs of Mepkin and wistfully imagined what could of been. Instead of having to make arrangements to bury another of his children, Henry had imagined himself in the eve of his life sitting as he was now surrounded by his children and grandchildren. He imagined Eleanor old and grey as he was, determinedly hobbling out into her garden to show her grandchildren how to feed the birds, fashion flowers into crowns and fill baskets with lemons, figs, pears and all other manner of things that grew there. Martha would be happily settled into one of the chairs on the front porch, a book in hand that she either studied herself or read aloud to her children. Jemmy and Harry would doubtless be up to some mischief despite their age. Henry could not help but marvel at the fact that of all his sons Harry had been the only one who survived long enough to inherit. He could see John everywhere, beside his mother holding her steadily as she walked, down by the water with Frances showing her the frogs and turtles that swam about in the mud, laughing at some idiotic joke his brothers had penned, and locking himself in a study so he could paint in peace as he used to when his siblings constantly pestered him.  
Henry could not stand the finality of burying him at Mepkin. He did not want to think about men digging down into the earth and tossing whatever bones they could find into a fresh casket. There would be a stone erected in his honor at home, but Henry decided he would not have the body moved until long after own his death. It seemed cruel almost, to leave him so far from home. Henry knew his son would most likely forgive him the slight, but he still felt a certain guilt about not bringing him home. John deserved to be at rest among his family. He had been away too long.  
John’s actions had baffled him. From infancy to his studies in Geneva he had never been anything but a sweet tempered and dutiful son. Henry struggled to comprehend how the boy who ran to him with paintings of birds and flowers turned into a man who eagerly charged into the midst of battle and bloodshed. He remembered how reluctant John had been to leave Geneva and enter into the study at Middle Temple. Perhaps he had sought out bad company in an attempt to get a revenge of sorts on his father. Of course Henry had anticipated that John would not enjoy London as he had Geneva. The colts prefer frolicing about in pastures to being broken in to the saddle and bit, but they settle into their work after a time. John had never settled. Something about London must have changed or unsettled him. Perhaps after being raised in the country mansions of Ansonborough and educated in the quiet city of Geneva, the narrow filth ridden streets and bitter air of London or perhaps the men that dwelled there had corrupted him in some way.  
The situation with the Manning girl still baffled Henry. John had never been one for the ladies. Henry had hoped that he was too sensible to bother the young ladies, but he had rather shamefully wondered if his son was a bit of a molly at times. If not for the scandal of the situation, John’s affair would have afforded Henry some relief. At least he left behind a granddaughter that carried some of his likeness. Henry was grateful for that small comfort, but due to the death of her mother and the father she had never laid eyes on Frances was quite aloof for a child of her age. Martha, Henry’s eldest daughter had taken the girl into her family and it seemed to do her good.  
Henry had heard that Mr. Hamilton, his son’s dearest friend in the war, had been married and had started his own little family and law firm. How odd that the man had built for himself nearly everything Henry had hoped John might have. Stranger yet was the fact that his father had long since abandoned the young man and forfeited the chance of growing old in the company of his grandchildren. Doubtless General Schuyler would enjoy watching over his daughter’s growing brood in his stead. Henry wondered if it would be proper for him to visit his son’s friend a final time, or invite him down to stay with him in the Carolinas so he could give John a final farewell. Everyone said the two of them had been inseparable and John had admitted once that the West Indian was his closest confidant. Perhaps Mr. Hamilton could shed some light on John’s actions, many of which defied reason. Some reports went so far as to label his boy as suicidal on the battlefield. One could only wonder what could have possibly driven him to this if it was the true. He had everything a man could wish for, land, wealth, family and the fixings to ensure a happy future and no reasons for shame. Of course he had seemed to assume responsibility for his brother’s demise, but Henry had assured him he was not to blame. Perhaps he had continued to hold himself accountable.  
The sickening realization began to dawn on Henry that if he had left John to do as he pleased much of this would never have come to pass. John could have happily spent the duration of the war studying plants in exotic countries, far from the danger of bullets and bayonets. Considering the boy’s studious nature, Henry wondered if he would have returned with some new medicine that would make him a fortune. Even if he did not, he was set to inherit a massive estate which would support him. More importantly, he would be alive to look after his father in his old age.  
The ghosts of what could, perhaps what should have been made the air at Mepkin heavy with regret. A dove cooed high above him in one of the old oak trees, it’s call low and sad. A pair of them fluttered down to perch upon the wall a few feet away. Eleanor and John would have happily pointed out that they were mourning doves, the same as they had raised in the house so many years ago. Henry had never been a man to sit idle. The Ansonborough manor was destroyed beyond repair, but Mepkin had remained largely untouched by the war. He would build it into a sort of sanctuary for himself, his final resting place before he left this world. He wondered how he could give so much of himself in service to his country and be left with nothing. General Washington had gone home to his family and estate, applauded for his sacrifice and his leadership. Henry was not quite as glamorous as the General, he had not presided over the battlefield nor been the image of heroism, but he had given much to this cause. He had led congress through the most dismal era of the war, dedicated massive funds to the effort from his personal coffers, endured imprisonment and had even lost a child to the cause of building a new nation. What more could a man be asked to give? 


End file.
